The Answer
by imayhaveapoint
Summary: This one-shot was a submission for a Japril fanfiction challenge. Harriet is sick and Jackson and April are quickly running out of ideas on how to help her.


**This is a one-shot I wrote a couple of months ago for a Japril fanfiction challenge. I am just posting it here so I can have all of my stories in one place.**

The Answer

I hear the monitors beeping, but I am unsure if I am awake or asleep.

Beep, beep, beep…

When I'm awake, I sit by her bed and watch her chest rise and fall, constantly checking the numbers on the screen that display how strong or weak she is that day as the monitors continue to beep in the background – a reminder that there is still time.

When I force myself to close my eyes and rest, the beeping is no longer comforting. I have the same recurring nightmare again and again. I am standing over an operating table in a cold, dark room. I am alone. There is no team to help me with the patient on the table, but I am confident enough in my abilities to perform the surgery alone. My confidence falters, though, when I look down at my patient and see Harriet's still body lying in front of me. That is when the beeping gets louder, as if it is happening in my mind and not coming from a machine. I panic and call out for help, but no one comes to help me. I don't operate. I can't. I don't know how to help her. I am helpless and terrified and the beeping is all I can hear. Beep, beep, beep. Louder and louder. I lift her lifeless body from the table and run to the door, knowing I have to get out. I have to get her help. I reach the door and try the handle, but it is locked. I twist and pull with everything I have, but it doesn't budge. Through the glass, Jackson appears on the other side, just as panicked, trying just as desperately to get in. I keep trying the door, thinking that if I can just get to him, if I can just get our daughter to him, she will be safe. "April!" he calls through the door. "April!"

A hand rests on my shoulder, and I sit up quickly, unaware that I had drifted off. Jackson is kneeling next to me extending a cup of coffee in my direction. I rub my eyes and look over to Harriet's crib. She is sleeping peacefully, as if she is used to the dozens of wires connected to her tiny body. Maybe she is. Sometimes it's hard to remember a time before she got sick. I turn back to Jackson and take the coffee from his hand, turning it in circles with my fingers instead of drinking it. It's a nervous habit. I fidget when I worry, and lately, all I do is worry.

Jackson runs a hand over my hair. "Were you having that dream again?" He knows the answer, but it is sweet of him to ask anyway. It's the only dream I have now.

"Yeah…" I reply, not wanting to say more. I told him about it once, but I don't like to relive it. Reality is scary enough right now.

It's been 54 days since we raced Harriet, unresponsive, to the ER with a dangerously high fever. She hadn't been herself for days. Low temperature at first, whiny, not eating, unable to rest. We chalked it up to teething, or a growth spurt, or a virus she must have picked up a daycare. We're doctors, we told ourselves as we took turns holding her through the night while she cried. We can fix this. But we couldn't. She was sick for a week before her temperature hit 105 degrees, and we rushed her here, to the place we hoped could save her. I will always regret not bringing her sooner. I'm her mom. I should have known something was wrong.

We watched as they performed countless tests. And when they found nothing, they would test again. It wasn't long before Catherine had a doctor who specializes in rare pediatric diseases flown in from Boston.

The day he arrived is a blur. "I've seen this before," he said. "Thalessemia. Hopefully Thalessemia Minor, but we will know for certain soon."

Her body was unable to fight off what was attacking it, which meant her red and white blood cells were being attacked. Yet because of the Thalessemia she was not producing new, healthy red blood cells. She would not recover without a donor, and even with one, she still had a tough road ahead of her.

Our friends and family lined up to get tested, but no one was a close enough match. Harriet went on the transplant list. One full of names of children who were waiting for someone, anyone to be a close enough match to their bone marrow or stem cells to save their life before they ran out of time. It's a terrible feeling to hope your child is saved instead of others, but I can't say I didn't think it every day.

Jackson pulls a stool over to sit in front of me, and I can see there is something on his mind.

"I've been thinking…" he begins.

"About what?" I ask.

"There is someone else. Another possible donor we haven't considered," he says cautiously.

In my mind, I run through the names of our family and friends, but I can't think of anyone we missed. "Who?"

"Samuel," he says his name and I feel the air rush out of my chest. Sitting in this hospital room, praying for a miracle, I have often tried to keep my thoughts from drifting to Samuel. Sometimes I feel as if Harriet is slipping away from us a little each day, and I have to fight to keep her with us. To keep her on this side. Because I can't survive losing another child.

"What are you talking about? How could Samuel be a donor? He's gone," I try to keep the hurt out of my voice, but I can't deny I am angry that he would bring him up now.

"Of course, he is, but April, remember? A part of him may not be. I was going to check with the lab, but I wanted to discuss it with you first."

I don't know why we didn't think of this before. When Samuel died, we had a small memorial service with just family. The casket was so tiny. Jackson picked blue and had his name engraved on the top. I didn't get to see him that day, though, because the casket had to be closed. As doctors, we knew that our heartbreak could be the answer other families had been waiting for. So, we donated all of his viable organs. Many, like his heart and lungs, were too small since he was born early, but we allowed whatever could be used to be given to someone who needed it. It was a small way for Samuel to live on. We also saved his umbilical cord for testing. We hoped that maybe it would lead to answers as to why Osteogenesis Imperfecta happens and a way to prevent it. The cord was stored here at Grey-Sloan, and if it is still here, it's possible that Samuel could be able to save one more child's life: his sister's.


End file.
